It's My Birthday
by Rothelena
Summary: A bad day. Hurt feelings. But when agent Lisbon finally takes what she always wanted, it backfires horribly. Or doesn't it? Oneshot PWP, written to catapult me out of writer's block. Who can guess the rating? Correct, straight M! You get a virtual cookie!


_Just a smutty oneshot, nothing more. I've suffered from some kind of writer's block for some days now, and I didn't like it, so I called a good friend yesterday. He told me: "Just write. No matter what. Start right now." Well, I did, and this is what came out. M of course, but you already know me, don't you? And: not so happy and fluffy, rather dark. But it hasn't with a bad ending!_

**It's my birthday**

Friday evening, and the dreaded paperwork just wouldn't end. Again.

Teresa Lisbon was tired. Oh so tired. Every muscle ached, and she wouldn't even start to think about the left side of her upper body. She could sense the killer bruise forming there, felt the blood pour into the wound, causing the swelling to hurt like hell. She had stopped the flight of just another suspect with her body. Again.

She sighed. The words were already blurring before her eyes.

Sleep. She just wanted to sleep. Another sigh- no way, honey. She had to finish this pile of useless paper before the weekend.

And it got even worse: tomorrow was her birthday. The years seemed to fly by. And she hated her birthday. Hated it so much thoughts of vanishing kept popping up in her mind- just be gone over the weekend, not to be found. Teresa Lisbon- disappeared from all the congratulants, smiling faces, presents she didn't need, didn't want. She never got what she wanted.

She watched him from the corner of her eyes. Today, he was in one of his legendary moods. Didn't even try to pretend being asleep. Just sat there on his couch, staring ahead, eyes empty, facial features contorted in pain. Nobody else could see his agony. But she could. She always knew when he hurt. When the mask slipped from his beautiful face, revealing the miserable mass of vulnerability beneath. In those moments she knew that he had lost everything. And that he still believed he had gotten nothing back. She gritted her teeth in frustration. Seven years. And she was the good friend, his buddy, there to share his lighter days. She was nothing more. Still nothing more, no matter how much she hoped and fought and inched closer. She was nothing more.

She knew she should stay seated. Finish the paperwork. Go home. Stay in bed for the weekend, ignoring all phone calls. No happy birthday for little Teresa. For the one thing she truly wanted wouldn't be there.

She should stay seated. At all costs. But she couldn't.

His pain was calling to her. Groping for her. Sending tiny voices out into the dark bullpen. Come here, Teresa. Share our misery. It's contagious. We want to make you sick.

She got up, getting closer, knowing he knew that she was approaching. She sat down next to him. He didn't look at her. Just a buddy. He wouldn't let her reach him where he was at the moment. But she tried. And got hurt. And tried again.

"Jane?", she whispered, her hushed voice still much too loud in the complete silence," Can I help you?"

He turned slowly, finally looking at her.

"Why, Lisbon," he said, his voice thick with screaming hurt, but his eyes hidden behind his usual calm façade, "I'm fine."

She extended her hand. Slowly. Inch by inch. Dying to be hurt. Knowing his rejection would come.

"No!", he exclaimed, averting her touch long before she reached him, shying away as if she was about to strike him, "Don't touch me. I hate to be touched."

The pain was a tingling sensation in her guts. Burning. Eating her up. Yes, sorry. You hate my touch. I know. But I had to try again.

She moved to get up, when his sharp intake of breath stopped her.

"Don't go yet", he murmured, " just sit there in the corner of the couch, okay? Just don't touch me."

She sat down again, as far from him as possible. She felt so lonely she wanted to cry. So hurt her skin started to prickle. So humiliated her whole body burned.

And at this moment, the clock stroke midnight.

Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday, dear Teresa. Happy birthday to you. A single tear rolled down her cheek.

But hey- she was a big girl. She felt calm. Sitting here, enduring the silence. Suffering. Felt good to suffer. Made her feel alive. He had forgotten, of course. He hadn't last year, when he'd given her the pony. She smiled. It hadn't been what she wanted, but that he had been thoughtful enough to get her something special had been like a soothing balm on her parched soul. She had enjoyed this birthday. A little bit.

Now Jane sat next to her, brooding, lost in thoughts of his past. Unable to let her touch him.

And it was her birthday. Again. And she wouldn't get what she wanted. Again.

It was unfair. She'd been brave. She'd been there. She deserved what she wished for.

Anger flared like a scorching flame. How could he think he was the only one who ached? He'd given himself up. But she couldn't do the same. She wanted her present. And he would give it to her. Now.

She looked at him. Something needy awakened inside of her. Something cruel.

"So", she cooed softly, getting even angrier when he refused to look at her, "you abhor my touch? Guess who doesn't give a flying fuck tonight, Patrick Jane."

Well, now he looked at her, eyes wide with shock. Pretty eyes, green like the sea under an oncoming thunderstorm. Lisbon turned and grabbed his lapels, leaning down, getting closer. Sucking up the fear she sensed in him.

"It's my birthday, Jane", she hissed, "seems nobody got me something, hmm? Guess I should take care of that myself."

She bit his lower lip, lightly, feeling him shudder beneath her lips. He went utterly still then, all emotion drained from his pale face. Frozen in time. She licked over the bite and moved to straddle him. Her thighs rubbed against his, her hips pushing against his abdomen, breasts flattened against his chest. Rough contact, her bruise protested, but that was what she needed. He didn't refuse her, still quiet as death, hands limp at his sides. But he lifted his head slightly. Offering his lips. Lisbon brought her mouth down on his, prying it open with her lips, pushing her tongue inside, plundering the sweet, hot cavern. Feeding kiss after kiss down his throat.

Her fingers started to dig through his clothes, opening buttons, ripping some off, she was desperate to feel, touch. Naked skin. She was curious to see how, when he would stop her. But he didn't. He lay utterly defenseless, pushing his body into her touch. The touch he dreaded so much.

His vest and the shirt hung open now, and she started to trail his pectorals with her fingernails. He made small needy sounds at the back of his throat, finally moaning into her kisses when her fingers dipped below the waistband of his pants, just raking a little bit, igniting, being mean to the bones.

When she pushed her hips closer against his crotch, ignoring the pain in her bruised flank, she felt it. The giant bulge behind his fly. So hard it could have been mistaken for any massive blunt object. So huge it couldn't.

Look at this, Patrick Jane. So you don't like my touch, hmm? Well, somebody does, obviously.

She rubbed her groin against it. Hard. Showing him what he was about to give tonight. She wouldn't leave here without her present. The one she'd truly wanted for years.

His hands jerked, she could sense it. Felt the tension running through his body like a current, the battle he was fighting, not wanting to give in. Unable to help it.

She lowered the zipper of his pants, slowly, carefully, he tensed more, resistant, but unable to stop her. His traitorous body tried to get closer. Get more. Yes, more.

She swallowed, suddenly so sad that she wouldn't get any initiative from him, no demonstration of his need, no rough manhandling. If she stopped now, he would possibly feel relieved, take care of this unforeseen little complication in the men's room and run from her as fast as he could. But she couldn't let him. She pushed all thoughts away and continued to undress. Unwrap. Pushing enough clothes aside to free his straining erection. Completely. She didn't want to play. She sighed. So perfect. Hot to her touch, veins throbbing, so hard it felt like pure steel. Too huge for her hand to span it. Getting even larger when she tried. That must hurt, she thought.

But still she could feel him fight, his eyes were shut, his whole body rigid, fists clenched so hard his knuckles were stark white.

She should stop. She should let him go. Finish her paperwork. But she couldn't. Her left hand stayed wrapped around his hard member, the right one touched his face. Gently. Fondly. Carefully. Like she would console a crying child. His skin was clammy, a soft sheen of sweat spread over his body. His eyes snapped open.

"Sorry", she mouthed, "I can't stop tonight. I'm sorry."

And suddenly some of the tension drained from his body. He nodded faintly, eyes glued to hers. Granting permission. White flag. Surrender. Not only to her. To his own need.

He thrust his erection into her hand, ever so slightly, but she could see the emotions playing in his face. Sensations, so long forgotten. Need, completely denied. Unused nerve endings ignited with spreading wildfire, powering into his system. Desire. Reclaiming every fiber of his body. His body that had been asleep for year after year now, unmoved by tides and rhythms, utterly celibate. Reawakened under her touch.

Lisbon got up from his lap and undressed. Slowly, completely, every single piece of garment, of fabric, and he licked his lips when he looked at her, hands still not moving, just lying on the couch next to him like strange appendages he didn't know how to use.

She swallowed around the cold lump in her throat. No problem, though. She would do the work for both of them. She was used to taking charge.

She went back to him, straddling him again, welcoming his warmth, noticing his manhood was so swollen now it almost touched his abdomen. This was the only thing she had ever wanted for her birthday since he had walked into her life. No, that wasn't true. She hadn't wanted him immediately. It had grown, this dark thing between them. Grown until it was too big for her to ignore it. Grown until it had started to give her sleepless nights.

She kissed him again, softly, thoroughly, using her tongue to soothe. Lifting her body, high, she had to straighten much to bring her core over his towering erection. She lowered herself only slightly, so that the tip of his hot, hard piston entered her, just a taste, a mere inch of him, but so good her senses went into overload. Sweat broke out on her skin. She heard a soft, wailing moan escaping his throat, wafting against her lips, and she swallowed the sound with her open mouth. She was panting into him. His breath went into synch with hers, going faster, faster, still accelerating.

She lowered herself onto him some more. And more. Every time she moved, impaled herself deeper, he cried out, his whole body jerking beneath her, like hit by an electric shock.

Lisbon broke the kiss, putting her forehead against his, reveling in the mind-blowing sensation his penetration elicited from her body. The stretching. The pressure, so much she thought she couldn't go any further, couldn't accommodate this rock hard piece of male flesh, but she made him press deeper, stretching her some more, whimpering, every nerve in her firing with arousal like lightning, welcoming his intrusion, walls dilating some more to take all of him. He pushed deeper, still more of him for her to accept, and finally he was buried inside her to the hilt, and she shuddered against him. He didn't move, but she could sense his hands flexing on the worn leather beneath them, clenching, unclenching, unsure of what to do. She watched for some seconds, with him so full and hard inside her. Beautiful hands. So delicate, elegant, long fingers, narrow, a magician's hands. The golden wedding band. Not hers, yes. He wasn't hers, she'd almost forgotten. She was just a fling, and tomorrow he would possibly hate her. So sorry, Patrick Jane. But I need to have this.

A tiny movement of his hips felt like a thrust deep inside her, and brought her concentration back to the almost unbearable pressure there. She went up, felt her walls clutch him, trying to keep him in, and she went back down, his length sliding in again all the way to her womb, and she cried out, tears starting to fall, eyes closed, she wanted to live on sensation alone, not to see his face right now, a face that would probably be full of regret, fear, pain. She betrayed his trust. She hated herself for taking what wasn't hers, never had been. But she couldn't stop. It just felt too good. So sorry, Patrick Jane. I can't make good for this, I know.

Her face was wet with tears, and her body swallowed his cock again, and again, her rhythm faster now, she needed him, she clenched her eyes shut, don't look at him now. Friction, so much friction, her heartbeat erratic, and her eyes opened on their own, searching for his before she could stop it. He was watching her, his face full of emotions. Concern. Want. Arousal beyond comprehension. And something else she didn't dare to put a name to, but it warmed her from the inside, melting the fear away, leaving something new in its wake. His breath was harsh, labored, panting, he made tiny sounds, keen, unbelieving, looking at her as if he just couldn't conceive what he was feeling. But his erection got even bigger inside her, expanding, making her cry out, the rhythm of her strokes faltering, she was shaking so hard she almost couldn't go on, but she had to, was struggling desperately to resume, to lift herself up from him again only to sink back down, her thighs were buckling, she sobbed.

And suddenly she felt the tight grip of his hands on her hips, clutching her like a vise. Slamming her down on his cock, cleaving into her, a scream torn from his throat, and he moved, thrust, again and again, god, he was so big, pounding into her, ramming her womb, she spread her legs to take him even deeper, and suddenly everything around her exploded, diffusing in a ball of fire, her spine tingling with the forceful onslaught of orgasm, her guts constricting, and she came, came so hard like she never had before, felt his hands on her hips, and he was still thrusting, pumping, the impact enormous whenever he surged into her, all the way to her core, he shouted, so loud, with abandon, and she bathed in his sounds, his movements, his response, when she came down from her high the waves started anew, grabbing her whole body, she screamed and sobbed and felt him tense beneath her, his movements getting erratic, and then he was shooting his load inside her, large squirts of hot, balmy liquid, and he wouldn't stop, spending more, and more, fueling her climax until the muscles of her lower body hurt from coming. She felt the aftershocks ripple through him, he was shaking, head thrown back, his face streaked with tears. He was still crying, heaving sobs tearing through his body, and she came out of the haze, touching his cheeks, his forehead, his lips. Trying to hush him, to mend something of the damage she'd done.

Her own tears started to fall, and suddenly she was awash with them, felt heart-broken, inconsolable. What had she done? She dissolved into a painful blur of misery, covering her face with her hands in a shame so profound it almost shattered her. He was still inside her. She was full of his come. God, she had to get away from him, allow him to compose himself, to get his dignity back. But when she started to move, she felt his hands on her back, spread out on her skin, pulling her closer. He enveloped her in his arms, and her cheek lay against his bare chest all of a sudden, wetting his skin with her tears, and his warm voice was all around her, whispering sweet little nothings, soothing her pain, mending some of the cracks. His hands were stroking her back, his lips kissing her hair, and she just wanted to fall asleep like this, wrapped up in his arms, his manhood still buried inside her, his semen drying on her thighs.

His heartbeat was loud and fast against her ear, she felt him clutch her tighter, and she sighed with contentment. She didn't deserve this. She had assaulted him. Used him for her own selfish needs. She had no right to force herself upon him. It was his right to reject her, to defend himself. And still he was holding her, being oh so gentle, giving solace when all she had done was hurt him more. She pushed her nose into his chest, his sweet scent wrapping around her senses, and she kissed his skin, hot, sweaty, vibrating beneath the soft caress.

They sat like this for a long time. Until she was toasty warm. Her tears had dried up. But his seed kept trickling out of her, remembering her of what she had done. Of how he had spend inside her without end.

Finally she got up, feeling lost when he slid out of her, still semi-hard. Nobody said a word. They both stood, not looking at each other. Everything gone, the trust shattered, and all her fault? She picked up her clothes, clutching them in front of her, covering up her nakedness.

Jane rearranged his clothes, hesitated for a moment, then went out of the bullpen on a vigorous stride, not turning back.

Lisbon went to the lady's room. When she arrived there she was crying again. She cleaned herself, dressed, welcoming the pain from the angry bruise across her ribcage. She had hardly noticed the dull pain while they…with a sigh she finger combed her tousled hair. She was ghostly pale. Dressed completely in black. She looked like death.

Strange, she thought. I look ordinary. So calm. So…normal. But I feel dead inside. Funny, hmm? She looked at her reflection in the mirror. Don't break down now. Encase your foolish heart. Encase it in walls made of stone.

She walked back to her office, trying not to look at the empty couch, trying not to miss him already. Walls of stone. Engulfing her heart. Squeezing the blood out of it. Making her function with cold precision…sometime soon, she hoped.

She looked at the pile of paperwork on her desk and bit back the tears. Hey, stupid girl. You fucked up big time. Happy birthday, my ass.

She had just picked up her pen when she sensed his presence, her traitorous heart slamming against her ribcage so hard it hurt- walls of stone, damn you. She could never work like this.

She looked up and found him directly in front of her desk, staring down at her.

He pushed his hand through his hair.

"I…", he whispered , "I got you something for your birthday. I wanted to give it to you…some time later. I don't know, I hadn't planned on anything, but- I guess now is as good a moment as any. So- here. I had this- made for you. Happy birthday, Teresa."

He handed her a small package, wrapped in dark red paper.

She took it and opened it slowly. Stony walls all around her heart. She couldn't hurt him more than she already had.

A small jeweler's box was inside. When she snapped it open, it revealed a golden chain with a locket, shaped like a heart. Lisbon gasped, her breath caught in her throat. Her heartbeat was so loud. Walls of stone. Rendering her effective. Professional. Her lips were trembling.

She flipped the delicate locket open. His picture was inserted into the tiny frame on the right side. It showed his elegant face in half profile, staring ahead, features contemplating, thoughtful, a ghost of a smile touching the corners of his mouth. All Jane.

On the left side, there was a single word engraved into the gold.

"Yours".

And the stone walls crumbled and shattered, and blood streamed back inside.

**The End**

_Okay, I'm not angry if you don't like it, I know it isn't much, this was just therapy, but I wanted to share it nonetheless. So- let me hear your thoughts. Be brutal. I can take it._


End file.
